


The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes

by duchess325



Series: The Baker Street Chronicles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, F/M, Hurt John Watson, Molly Hooper & John Watson Friendship, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Pregnant Molly, Protective Mycroft, Sassy John, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlolly - Freeform, bbcsherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 02:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9051508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchess325/pseuds/duchess325
Summary: Sherlock needs Molly's help; Molly needs Sherlock.





	1. The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, finally posting a story. I’ve been writing for a couple of months now on several stories and to be honest, I think I have just been too scared to post them. Just please keep in mind that these are living, changing things to me. I may continue to edit them after I post them as I think of new ideas or I re-read the stories and see things that I don’t like. As I said before, I ship Sherlock and Molly, so most of what you read here will be about their relationship. I have much respect for the original stories, where I may from time to time draw inspiration (obviously, Molly is not in the original stories, but I may still find a place for her). I also have mad love and respect for Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I will try to fit my stories into their canon, which may mean some rewrites when Series 4 comes out next month.
> 
> In this particular story, set on the night before Sherlock Holmes’ meeting with Jim Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart’s, the beginning, written in bold type, is the words of Steve Thompson, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat who wrote the episode The Reichenbach Fall. The rest is mine. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warning: There are some risque parts to this story but nothing too graphic.

**Sherlock looked at Molly, the expression on his face even more unreadable than usual.**

**“Tell me what’s wrong” she told him, unable to disguise the worry in her voice.**

**“Molly, I think that I am going to die,” he said rather matter-of-factly.**

**“What do you need?” she asked. She noticed that he had suddenly closed the gap between them.**

**“If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?”**

**“What do you need?” she asked again, as Sherlock closed the distance between them, his face now just inches from hers.**

**“You.”**

Even as Sherlock explained it to her a second, exasperated time, Molly couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Molly, please understand that I wouldn’t have come to you unless it was absolutely necessary. Moriarty is very dangerous and is not above using people to get to me, as you know. But, I need you. I need someone that I can trust. My brother will protect you and that is the best that I can offer anyone.”

Molly mulled this over in her head, along with everything else he had just told her about Moriarty.

“Moriarty has pinned everything on you and he has erased his existence by claiming that he is an actor hired by you to play this villain that you dreamed up?” She shook her head in disbelief as she asked, “And now you need me to help you fake your death?” She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it all. They were sitting in her office at her desk and she had to spin her chair around so that her back was to him. She couldn’t look at that face and concentrate right now. Not to mention that she couldn’t let him see her falter. He trusted her, obviously, and she had to get her head in this so that his trust wasn’t in vain.

When she finally turned around she was composed and very matter-of-fact. “Right, then. It just so happens that I have a corpse in the morgue that looks strikingly similar to you, though not nearly as handsome.” If this was really going to be one of the last times that she would ever see him, there was no use in hiding any feelings anymore.

“What’s that now?” Sherlock asked, a perplexed look on his face.

Molly ignored his question and continued. “This particular corpse even dresses like you. It just came in a few hours ago, a John Doe, I haven’t even had time to process him. It would be easy to for me to make it so he never existed. Hearing everything that has happened I would dare say he’s related to the kidnapping, especially since that little girl had such an adverse reaction to you, a man she has never met

“We’ll also need some of your blood. I can collect a pint and keep it in cold storage here until we are ready to use it. Now the question is, what shall be the cause of death?”

Sherlock still seemed flustered, perhaps because she had called him handsome, perhaps it was because Molly seemed so calm and collected and trustworthy, or perhaps it was because for the first time since he had known her, Sherlock was seeing the real Molly and she was stunningly brilliant.

“Sherlock? The cause of death?” she asked again.

“Yes, that is the question isn’t it?” he replied. “I need to make a phone call, to my brother. Molly—I just—the thing is, you know, if we do this then I’ll have to leave. I’ll probably never come back.”

“Yes, I know. That’s makes it easier for me to ask for one thing in return.”

“Of course,” he said. “Anything. And I want you to know that you and your career will be safe. Mycroft will see to that. You will never be implicated. He will give you whatever you want.”

“Mycroft cannot give me what I want, Sherlock. Only one person has ever had that power. Will you really give me anything?” she asked.

He looked at her quizzically. “Yes. What is it?”

She sighed and shook her head slowly in exasperation. “You, you silly dolt. I want just this night with you.”

“Molly--”

“Please don’t say no without just thinking about it for a moment. I mean, just think of it as you’ll never have to see me again and it doesn’t have to mean anything to you. We can just--”

“Molly Hooper!” Sherlock interrupted. He smiled a genuine smile at her, not like the ones she was used to seeing from him when he was trying to flatter her for a favor. No, this one was real. “Molly, I was going to say I would be very happy to, however, I can only give you about three hours because there is much to do,”

“That’s fine,” Molly said quickly and eagerly, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “My flat is fifteen minutes by cab.”

“Then we should get going.”

 

In the taxi, Sherlock and Molly rode in a comfortable silence, Molly looking out the window and Sherlock stealing furtive glances at her.

“Molly,” Sherlock said quietly, breaking the silence, “how long have we known one another?”

“Um, let’s see—four, almost five years, I think. Why?”

“I just—just want—only--”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“But, that’s just it, Molly. It’s not okay. I realized today that I have, quite unintentionally, been marginalizing you. I haven’t always appreciated you or been very nice to you. I was a fool. You are a lovely, intelligent, compassionate woman. You are important, and I sincerely apologize for ever making you feel otherwise.”

Molly was speechless. Sherlock Holmes had just apologized to her. It wasn’t the first time, and if they ever did see each other again after tonight, then it probably wouldn’t be the last time, but right now it meant everything to her. A sob caught in her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Sherlock gave her a small smile and glanced up as the taxi pulled to the curb. “Are we here then?”

Molly let him into her flat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be just a moment.”

She dashed into her bedroom and turned on a lamp in the corner. She shrugged off her cardigan onto a chair and stripped down to her lingerie. Well, at least they match today, she thought, glancing at herself in her mirror as she spritzed perfume on her neck. She lit some candles, which bathed the room in a soft, warm glow. Finally, she grabbed a silk dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door, tied it at the waist, and took a deep breath.

 

Sherlock, left in Molly’s sitting room, paced a bit. He took off his scarf, coat, and jacket and lay them across an arm chair. He slipped off his shoes. He put them back on. He paced around the room once more and took his shoes back off. He was just rolling his socks together and tucking them into one of his shoes when the bedroom door opened and revealed Molly standing shyly in a short, pink dressing gown.

 

Sherlock smiled nervously as he crossed over to her.

“I’m afraid this is not really my area of expertise,” he said. “Surprising, I know,” he added with a chuckle.

Molly took him by both hands and walked slowly backward, leading him into the bedroom.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “Just do what I hope comes naturally, like this,” she said as she stopped by the bed and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Sherlock was timid at first, but was quickly and eagerly kissing her back. Molly heard a low, soft groan as his arms enveloped her and drew her body close to his. Pressed against him this way she could feel that he was aroused. Well, at least now I know for sure that he’s human, she thought.

 

_Sherlock hoped that Molly couldn’t tell that he was trembling with nerves. When her lips touched his, their hands intertwined, he felt his breath catch in his throat. He was enveloped in her scent, which a glance at her vanity had told him was the Estee Lauder perfume Sensuous. He had smelled it so many times, working closely beside her in the lab at Bart’s, trying to ignore it. Now he inhaled it—amber and sandalwood, jasmine, honey, oranges, and just something a little spicy. He groaned and pulled her close against his body. There was no turning back now._

 

Sherlock’s hands found the belt of Molly’s dressing gown and untied it. He then let them glide up the sides of her body, up her chest, and then he pushed the dressing gown off her shoulders to fall into a silky puddle at her feet.

Molly tore her lips from Sherlock’s so she could concentrate on unbuttoning his shirt. It was purple and fit his taut torso perfectly. He was always sharply dressed, but this had always been her favorite shirt on him. He undid the cuffs as she made quick work of the front buttons. It nearly took her breath away when he peeled it off. She breathed in his scent—soap and manliness. Was manliness even a scent? If it was, it must be a mixture of pheromones, sweat, and musk, she thought.

As Molly slid her hands down to his trousers she thought about how many times she had daydreamed about this moment. Of course, she could never decide if he would be wearing silk boxers or nothing under his trousers. Now here was the moment of truth. Black silk boxers were revealed, currently straining against the bulge of his erection.

Sherlock was now trying, unsuccessfully, to unhook Molly’s bra. “How the bloody hell do these things work?” he grumbled.

Molly chuckled and reached behind her back with her right hand and gently nudged his hand away. With a swift pinch of her fingers she popped the hooks apart and slipped her bra off her shoulders. Sherlock was already naked as she tried to sexily shimmy her panties off. She had no more than stepped out of them when Sherlock had thrown back the covers and maneuvered her onto the bed. He hovered on his knees over her body as he leaned over to kiss her again.

 

_Sherlock was trembling again and he knew there was no hiding it now. He kissed her, trying to settle his nerves of excitement. Her hands were in his hair, on his back, pulling him eagerly. She moaned as he lowered himself into her. They had no more than begun to move in rhythm when, oh, no! No, no, no, no!_

 

“Molly I must apologize for what is about to happen,” he said quickly.

“What do you mean—oh!”

Sherlock was suddenly very still, his face dropped to avoid her eyes.

“I’m very sorry about that,” he said quietly. “It won’t happen so quickly the next time, I hope.”

“The next time?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said, looking into her face again. “I promised you three hours, and we have approximately two hours and fifteen minutes left.”

Molly couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing, and to her pleasant surprise, so did Sherlock. Sherlock carefully rolled over to Molly’s left side and lay back on the pillow beside her.

“Perhaps it is needless to say, I wasn’t expecting that to happen. Not that I wasn’t expecting it to be pleasurable--”

Molly had propped herself up on her left elbow to face him. “Sherlock, please. It’s okay. This night is already more special than I could have ever imagined it would be just being here with you.” She got a sly smile on her face. “Obviously the next time is my turn so please try not to think of John. Subsequently, we shall try to work together for simultaneous pleasure, okay?”

“John?! What the—what is that supposed to mean? I was clearly overwhelmed by the chemical pheromones, which you were producing in abundance to draw my body to yours. It was apparent, or so I thought, that I was aroused by your body in that little silk number, pressed against my-”

“Sherlock! I was bloody joshing with you!”

“I knew that,” he said quite unconvincingly. “Wait, what did you say about subsequently working together?”

“You promised me three hours, and we have approximately two hours and ten minutes left. Oh, we are going to have a lot of sex tonight.”

A huge smile broke across Sherlock’s face and he chuckled as he turned on his right side to face Molly.

The sheets were disheveled, barely covering their bodies. Sherlock reached over with his left hand and started tracing the lines of Molly’s body. He gently pushed the sheet away as his hand skimmed her right hip.

“Oh, what do we have here?” he asked, his fingertips lingering over a tattoo. “Always,” he read. “Is that for an old lover?” Was there a flicker of jealousy on his face?

“No, no. It’s nothing,” she answered. She was suddenly embarrassed by her Harry Potter tattoo, and she felt too silly to explain it to him. He obviously didn’t read the books.

“What is this symbol here that makes the ‘A’? A triangle, a circle, and a line. That must mean something. Always. Always. I will always love you.”

“Sherlock, I said it’s nothing. It’s just something silly from a book. Let’s just please forget it. How can I make you forget it?” she asked scooting closer and rubbing her leg along his leg and her fingertip along his bottom lip.

“Oh, I think we can find something to distract me,” he said, pulling her to him as he rolled on his back. “Molly Hooper, you are a beautiful person. Please don’t let anyone marginalize you ever again.” He reached up and loosened her hair, letting it tumble down over her shoulders. “Beautiful.”

Two hours later Molly lay curled on her side in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. She was pleasantly exhausted and Sherlock was gently stroking her arm.

“We’re going to have to get up soon,” Sherlock told her. “I still have to go see my brother.”

“He scares me a little bit. That is, he intimidates me.”

“Don’t ever be intimidated by Mycroft Holmes. You are too strong for that.”

“How long until we need to leave?” Molly asked.

“About ten minutes.”

“That should be about long enough,” she said with a smile.


	2. After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has helped Sherlock fake his death. This is the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of series 4 beginning this Sunday, I have two stories that I will be posting this week, both are follow-ups to “The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes,” which I previously posted.  
> This is the second part of “The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes.” It explores a theory of how Sherlock faked his death, how John and Molly dealt with his “death” immediately after, how Sherlock felt about leaving them behind, and Sherlock’s movements for the two years that he was gone. The words in bold type are the words of Steve Thompson and Mark Gatiss, from “The Reichenbach Fall.” They are included here to give context to the events of my story.

Leaving Molly’s flat, Sherlock put Molly in a cab back to Bart’s and waited on a car from the Ministry to take him to Mycroft’s office. He was surprised when his brother was in the backseat waiting for him.  


“Hello, Sherlock. Surprised to see me?” Mycroft greeted him.  


“Why aren’t you at the office working on the plan. This must come off without a hitch. My life hangs in the balance.”  


“Yes, well, I guess you could say that curiosity got the best of me when you sent me Ms. Hooper’s address as your pick-up point. I was going to ask you what kind of little excursion on which you had been, but that is quite obvious to me now.”  


“What is that supposed to mean?”  


“Oh, I think you know, but I’ll be glad to elaborate. First of all, let’s take into consideration the ridiculous smile that was on your face when the car pulled up to the curb. You rarely smile and when you do it is usually more of a smirk. Second, you reek of perspiration; perfume with hints of citrus, pepper, amber, and honey; and something that I can only assume is other bodily fluids. I suggest that you shower and change before you meet Moriarty. If he is as clever as I think he is he won’t have any trouble making a connection between you and Ms. Hooper as easily as I did. He did date her briefly, I believe? I’m sure he will at least recognize the perfume.”  


Sherlock knew that Mycroft was right, as much as he hated him to be. He knew that if Moriarty knew that there was a connection between he and Molly that he would exploit it. He may even harm Molly. She was already putting herself at risk to help him and he couldn’t make that risk any greater.  


When they got to Mycroft’s offices, Sherlock took a quick shower. Mycroft had already sent someone to Sherlock’s flat on Baker Street to retrieve a clean suit, shirt, and coat (“Make sure they get one of the purple shirts like I was wearing!”). He was just buttoning his cuffs as he walked into his brother’s office.  


“There are 13 possibilities once I get on the roof with Moriarty,” Sherlock began.  


“Obviously, however--”  


“You have something in mind?”  


“It would employee your homeless network, as well as some of my own agents.”  


“I’m listening…”  


“I’m assuming we have the full cooperation of Ms. Hooper?”  


“Of course.”  


“Here are the details,” Mycroft said, handing Sherlock a file. “I’ll leave it to you to brief Ms. Hooper.”  


Sherlock scanned the contents of the file. “Code name Lazarus. Cute.”  


“I hoped you would appreciate it.”  


“I need to get back to Bart’s. You’ll hear from me soon.”  


“Be careful, Sherlock.”  


“Oh, don’t get sentimental on me now. Goodbye.”  


 

*********************************************************************  


 

Sherlock stood on the edge of St. Bart’s roof. He was talking to John on his phone, trying to convince him that he wasn’t the great detective that John thought him to be. He had to convince him that he needed to find a way out. He had to convince John that he was about to kill himself.  


**“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.” Tears leaked from Sherlock’s eyes as he lied to his best friend. “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”  
**

**John refused to believe him. He shook his head vigorously. “No. All right, stop it now.” He started for the hospital entrance. He had to save Sherlock.  
**

**“No! Stay exactly where you are!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Don’t move.”  
**

**John held his hands up and stepped back. “All right.”  
**

**“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” Sherlock said frantically. “Please, will you do this for me?”  
**

**“Do what?” John asked with confusion.  
**

**“This phone call…it’s, um…it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they—leave a note?”  
**

**John shook his head as he realized that this was really happening, what Sherlock’s intentions were. “Leave a note when?” he asked him.  
**

**“Goodbye, John.”  
**

**“No. Don’t,” John said, shaking his head.  
**

**Sherlock gazed down at John for a moment more before dropping his phone. John lowered his own phone as he continued to fix his gaze on Sherlock.  
**

**“No. Sherlock!” John shouted as loudly as he could.  
**

Sherlock spread his arms and jumped, his arms and legs flailing as he plummeted toward a truck with an open bed full of bags of laundry parked at the curb. _Please let me hit this just right,_ he thought as the ground came up at him faster and faster. With a hard thud he landed on top of the laundry just as Molly dumped the twin corpse from a second floor window. Like clockwork, members of Sherlock’s homeless network, as well as Mycroft’s agents, scurried into positions around the scene.  


**John was racing to the spot where he thought Sherlock lay. He saw the body lying on the sidewalk just as a man on a bicycle deliberately ran into him, knocking him to the ground where he hit his head. Agents dressed as hospital personnel surrounded the body, giving Sherlock the chance to switch places. The other body was tossed into the cab of the truck which sped away. While John staggered to his feet, his head fuzzy, the agents surrounding Sherlock dumped his blood, which Molly had collected earlier, on the sidewalk and the back of his head. Finally, Sherlock tucked a squash ball under his arm to make the pulse in his wrist undetectable.  
**

 

************************************************************  


 

John made his way to Sherlock’s side, pushing the bystanders out of his way, insisting that he was Sherlock’s friend and a doctor. He reached Sherlock’s side and took his wrist to feel for a pulse. Two of the onlookers gently pulled him away from the body. He reached for him again as a stretcher arrived. They lifted Sherlock’s body, with its wide-eyed stare, onto the stretcher and began to wheel it away.  


**John reached forward again. “Please, let me just…” He slumped to the sidewalk, tried to stand again and then sank back down. “Ahh, Jesus, no. God, no.” He finally managed to stand, waving off the assistance of onlookers, and watched as the body of his best friend disappeared through a gate to St. Bart’s.  
**

 

***************************************************************  


 

Molly met Sherlock inside the gate where an ambulance was waiting to take him to Home Office.  
“Are you okay?” Molly asked him.  


“Yeah. It was not as soft as you would think laundry would be…”  


“No, I mean, how are you about John?”  


“Oh. It was difficult, especially when I heard him yelling my name. And just now on the sidewalk—will you go to him and be with him?”  


“Of course.”  


Sherlock stepped closer to Molly and put his hands on her waist. “Thank you, for everything that you’ve done for me today. Everything.” He leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. “Take care, Molly Hooper.” With that he hopped into the back of the ambulance which turned on its lights and sped away. 

 

*********************************************************************  


Molly walked out through the gate to where John stood in shock. Bystanders were trying to usher him away from the spot where Sherlock’s blood stained the sidewalk. Molly walked up to him. They looked at each other and just fell into one another’s arms, openly weeping.  


“No, god, no,” John moaned over and over.  


Police cars pulled up. Greg Lestrade jumped out of an unmarked car. When he saw John and Molly he just stopped and put his hands on his head, “Oh, Christ.”  


D.S. Donovan was in the passenger’s seat and hung her head.  


Soon there were black cars from Home Office surrounding the area. Men and women in black suits confronted police officers and commandeered the scene. While the world rushed on around them, Molly and John stayed frozen by the pool of Sherlock’s blood, holding each other and trying to find comfort amid chaos.  


 

*************************************************************************

 

Mycroft entered the room where Sherlock had been waiting and handed him an attaché case and a large manila envelope.  
“The strongest thread in Moriarty’s web is located in China. There is a crime syndicate there with feelers all over Asia and into the Middle East. The smugglers involved in the death of the banker a couple of years ago were just a drop in the bucket when you start to look at the depth of this. I can guarantee your passage to South Korea. From there you are on your own.  
“In the envelope, you will find passports, identification cards, and other pertinent documents to assist you. In the case, you will find cash, some burner phones, and a hand gun. If you find yourself in dire need of assistance you know how you can contact me. This is the pin number,” he said, flashing a slip of paper at Sherlock before lighting it with a cigarette lighter and letting it curl into black ashes on the table. Mycroft stared at his little brother with a sad look on his face.  


“What?” asked Sherlock. “Why are you looking at me that way?”  


“Chances are you will not return, Sherlock, a prospect that wears on me.”  


“Good, lord, are we getting sentimental now?” Sherlock demanded.  


“Believe it or not, little brother, I am fond of you in my own way. It is therefore difficult for me to send you out into the world to take down Moriarty’s crime web. As we are both well aware, there is the distinct possibility that you will not return. That rests heavily on my soul.”  


“Your soul! I didn’t know you had one, Mycroft. This is ridiculous. We’ve known all along what had to be done. I’m well prepared and equipped to handle this mission, thanks to you and the British government. If, by some unfortunate chance, I do not finish the mission successfully, then at least you will be able to say that I gave all for my queen and country. Wouldn’t that make you proud!” Sherlock smirked at his older brother, and Mycroft sighed. There would be no use arguing.  


 

*********************************************************  


 

Mycroft went later that day to see Molly at St. Bart’s morgue. She processed the paperwork on the corpse, which was identified as Sherlock and released to Mycroft. He then set in motion to quickly have a funeral and burial.  


There were not many people at the funeral. John, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were there, of course, as well as Anderson and a few detectives from Scotland Yard. There were a few of Sherlock’s old clients who had read about his suicide in the papers and came to pay their respects for a man who had helped them. Sherlock’s parents were not there; Mycroft made excuses that they were stuck in the States. Within two days of his “suicide,” there was a body in the grave of Sherlock Holmes.  


 

******************************************************  


 

Molly came home from Sherlock’s funeral and lay in her bed. She knew he wasn’t dead, but she had still lost him. He was gone. He wouldn’t be back. He had told her as much; Mycroft had told her as much. Therefore, even though he wasn’t dead, Molly’s heart mourned for Sherlock.  
She rolled over and buried her head in the pillow next to her, where she could still smell his scent. She breathed in deeply, and then cried until she fell asleep, her soul exhausted.  


 

*****************************************************  


John Watson sat in his armchair at 221B Baker Street, the day after the funeral, staring at the empty chair in front of him. He thought of how many times he had sat here across from Sherlock just talking or laughing. How many times they had sat there arguing with one another? He thought of all the clients that they saw here, together. He imagined Sherlock with his feet tucked under him, his tall, lanky body filling up the chair. He imagined him sitting there yelling at the telly or plucking the strings of his violin as he tuned it. But now it was empty. He was gone, he was gone.

 

Later, John and Mrs. Hudson rode to the cemetery to visit Sherlock’s grave. A black granite stone had been erected sometime in the past 24 hours, which simply said “Sherlock Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson, mercifully, left John to have some time to himself.  


**“Um ... mmm,” he began, speaking to the stone, “you ... you told me once that you weren’t a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There.” He let out a sigh and touched the stone, as if to feel closer to Sherlock. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Okay.” He began to walk away, but after a few steps turned back. “No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ... be,” his voice started to break, “... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it,” he waved toward the grave. “Stop this.”  
**

**John stood there a few minutes more, trying to collect himself as the tears slipped from his eyes. He finally wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, stood at attention and nodded a salute to his friend’s grave, and turned and walked away.  
**

**In the distance, Sherlock stood, obscured by a grove of trees, listening. When John and Mrs. Hudson were out of sight, he turned and walked away.  
**

 

**************************************************************  


 

Sherlock sat on a private plane on his way to South Korea. He fished a small, black case out of his coat pocket and sat it on the small table in front of him and stared at it. It would be a long flight. He could open the case and for eighteen hours numb himself to the point that he would not think or care about what had happened over the past 72 hours, or he could put the case up and think of Molly and John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and how much he regretted that he had to leave them the way he did.  


Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured Molly. He thought of her smile, the smell of her hair, and how utterly and completely stupid he had been all these years. The night he had finally come to his senses and given himself over to her completely was the same night that he had to tell her goodbye forever. He replayed every part of the last day that he had spent with her—the afternoon in the lab when he finally realized how he had made her feel for the past four years; that evening when he approached her for help; the hours wrapped in her arms, making love to her; and that final kiss before he disappeared from her life. His heart ached.  


He pictured John, his best, and perhaps only, friend. They had found each other when they needed each other the most. John was home from war, alone in the world, and in need of the danger and adrenaline that their detective work provided. Sherlock, though he never told John, was just out of rehab, forced to find a flat mate by his over-bearing brother. But John had turned out to be so much more than just a flat mate and work partner; he had been Sherlock’s moral compass. He taught Sherlock how to be human and navigate a world of compassion and emotion that he sometimes didn’t understand. His heart ached.  


The pain was too much to bear. Sherlock opened his eyes and reached for the case.  


 

*********************************************************  


 

Two months later, Sherlock ducked into an Internet café in New Delhi, India. He had been in China until the week before, dismantling Moriarty’s criminal web, but new information had brought him now to the sub-continent. He spent three days blending in with the tourists in the most metropolitan parts of the city. Then he began branching out and slipping into the seedier parts looking for information on a crime boss known only as Raashtrapati. He had followed a lead for a day and a half, only to come to a dead-end. Now he sat in the back corner of the café staring at a laptop screen as he tried to compose an email, selecting his words carefully.  


_Dear Captain,  
_

_I needed to let you know that I heard you. As I said before, it was all a magic trick. Talk to Nathanael’s girl; she can tell you. Speaking of Nathanael, I’ve taken a page from his book and am following in his footsteps. Hopefully, my journey will end better than his did. Mikey is the optimist, as usual, on this point.  
_

_All my love to everyone_

Sherlock stared at the screen, rereading the message five times. Would John understand? What if the message was intercepted? Would someone else figure it out? Would he be better off leaving a comment on John’s blog? The cursor blinked at him. He hit delete.  


Back on the streets, Sherlock wandered aimlessly, thinking of John and Molly. It had been a long time since he had missed someone this much. I must be getting sentimental, he thought. At that moment, as he walked down a side-street, he looked up at the laundry hung on lines stretched across the street between buildings, and a colorful shirt caught his eye. He wasn’t sure why, but the bright flowers on it reminded him of Molly, and on impulse he pulled a burner phone out of his backpack and snapped a picture. Then, before he could give himself time to think and stop himself, he texted the picture to Molly. Just as quickly, he deleted the photo, smashed the phone, and tossed it in a bin in the next alley. He knew what he did was stupid and could possibly put Molly in danger, but he felt that he owed it to her to let her know that he was still alive, that he was okay, and he was still thinking of her.  


 

**************************************************************  


 

Three weeks later he found himself taking a picture of the sunrise over the desert and sending it to Molly just before he hid his backpack in a nook of a rocky hillside. He smashed the burner on the boulders and buried it somewhere in the Thar Desert.  


 

*************************************************************  


 

Four weeks later, Sherlock was chained up in a cell in Pakistan. He hadn’t eaten in a week and the only water he had been given was dirty and had given him dysentery. The cell, which only had a mat on the dirt floor and a rusted pot, smelled wretched and buzzed with flies. Sherlock’s stomach cramped with pain. He was over taken with bouts of diarrhea and nausea. His body was feverish and slick with sweat.  


For two days, he lay on the mat like this, shaking with fever, his skin becoming dry with dehydration. He was sure that he was, indeed, going to die in this godforsaken place. Then he heard a sweet and familiar voice calling to him, “Sherlock!”  


Sherlock tried to lift his head up and focus in the dim light of the early evening. And there she was—Molly. She was standing by the window of his cell, wearing a jumper with little pink flowers, a pair of khaki pants, and her lab coat. Her hair was loose, framing her face and tumbling down her shoulders. She smiled at him; she wore red lipstick.  


“Rather rough, isn’t it? You’ll need to see a proper doctor. You’re becoming dehydrated, and I’ve seen the stuff they’re giving you to drink; you’ll never get better.”  


“You’ve got to convince them that they need you, that your life is important,” John added. Wait, where did he come from? There he was, in a checked shirt and jeans and his black jacket, giving Sherlock a stern look. “You’re a genius, figure this out. Make it worth their while to let you live.”  


“How are you here?” Sherlock managed to choke out.  


“You have a raging fever, you’re dehydrated, and you’re probably delusional,” Molly told him. “Don’t let it end this way, Sherlock. You’ve got to come back to me.”  
“You have to come back to Baker Street,” John said.  


Sherlock blinked. Everything was fuzzy. Molly blurred at her edges. John was enveloped in a thick fog. “No, don’t go,” he mumbled at them.  


“Come back to me, Sherlock,” Molly said again as she vanished. John was already gone.  


“No, don’t go,” Sherlock whimpered. “Please, I need you.” He lay shivering and sobbing. Molly was gone, she was gone. No, no. She was right where he had left her; it was he who had left, and she was right—he had to make it back to her.  


“Guard! Guard! I need someone!”  


A few minutes later a guard with an automatic weapon appeared at his cell door. “What do you want?”  


“I need a doctor.”  


The guard let out a hearty laugh. “You want a doctor? That’s funny. Why should you get a doctor when we are just going to kill you anyway? Don’t waste my time.” He spat at Sherlock.  


“I need a doctor because you need me. You fools bumbled around and managed to capture me, but you have no idea who I am or what you got. Have you ever heard of the British MI-6?”

 

****************************************************************  


 

Sometime in December (Sherlock was unsure of the date as he had lost track), he was trekking across Tibet making his way back through China to Chengdu. His already lanky figure had been ravaged by the dysentery in Pakistan, leaving him weak and emaciated. He knew he couldn’t make it far at a time in these mountains on his own. He was therefore pleased and relieved when he spotted a monastery in the distance on his second day. He pulled a burner phone from his pocket and took a picture of the snow-covered chapels and sent it to Molly.  
“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” he said. Then he destroyed the phone and buried it in the snow.  


***********************************************************************************  


 

It was February 14 and Sherlock was in an outdoor market in Afghanistan, somewhere near the border of Uzbekistan. He had been making his way north toward Russia for almost three weeks. Once he could cross the border he had arranged to board a train that would take him into Russia. He knew that this was probably going to be the most dangerous part of his mission so far. Information that he had recently received indicated that Moriarty’s web of crime crissed-crossed eastern Europe, in a dangerous tangle of mafias, terrorist organizations, smuggling operations, and many more loosely structured crime rings. This was everything that Mycroft had warned him about.  


Today may be the last time I can communicate with Molly. It becomes too risky after this.  


On the fringes of the market there was an open field where many young boys and men were flying kites. This was it. This would be his Valentine to Molly Hooper. He took one of his last burner phones and took a picture of the red, blue, yellow, and white kites and texted it to her number. Then he destroyed the phone and threw it to the bottom of a well. He was off to meet his train.


	3. An Unexpected Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly turns to John for help and friendship after Sherlock's "death," and she is keeping more than one secret.

Molly hugged the toilet bowl as she vomited yet again. This had been going on all morning and she wondered how she could possibly have anything left in her stomach. She leaned back against the wall as the wave of nausea passed over her. She patted her moist brow with a towel from her lap. This was not good.  


An hour later she had managed to get dressed and take the tube to the clinic where John Watson worked. She hoped he was working. She hoped he could help make this better.  


A little while later a nurse led her into an examination room. John was sitting on a stool pulling on a pair of latex gloves.  


“Molly!” he exclaimed as she entered the room. “What brings you way out here? Isn’t the Bethnal clinic over by your flat?”  


“Yes, but I was needing to see a friendly face,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m glad to see that you are here today.”  


“Of course, please have a seat,” John said, with his own sad smile. “How are you doing, Molly, and not just physically? How are you holding up?”  


“Not as well as I thought I was. I have good days, but then something will happen, or I’ll see or hear something that reminds me of him, and then I’m not so good. And you?”  


“Not good at all really. I had to leave Baker Street. I just couldn’t be in our flat anymore. I couldn’t live with his things surrounding me, with all of the memories surrounding me.” He paused, staring into some point in time that only he could see. Then he shook his head, as if clearing out something unpleasant. “Now what can I do for you today?” He glanced at the chart that the nurse had given him. “Nausea, vomiting, sweating—probably just a touch of flu. Let’s just have a listen,” he said pulling out his stethoscope.  


“It’s not flu,” Molly said as John rolled his stool closer. She reached in her shoulder bag and pulled out a baggie with something in it and handed it to John.  


“What’s this?” he asked taking it from Molly. He looked down at the white, plastic stick in the bag. “This is a pregnancy test. You’re pregnant?”  


A tearful Molly nodded.  


“I’m not an OB, Molly, you know that. Why are you here? Talk to me. Tell me about it.”  


“It was just one night, and I just never imagined. I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. I needed someone to talk to, John. The past two months have just been so overwhelming, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”  


John rolled close to Molly and took her in his arms. She buried her head in his shoulder and cried, releasing weeks of grief, loss, worry, and loneliness. John stroked her hair, trying to hold his own grief in so he could support his friend.  


“So, the father?”  


“Is out of the picture. Gone. I don’t know where he is,” she told him. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.  


“Okay. So, what do you want to do? I’ll be here for you, no matter what. I promise.”  


Molly nodded. “I’ve really thought about it, and I want to have this baby. I need something to focus my attention on right now in my life. I need someone to love. But, I’m scared too, John.”  


“You came to me because you need a friend. I am your friend, Molly. I will not abandon you. Whatever you need from me—someone to run to the store if you get cravings in the middle of the night, someone to rub your feet or tie your shoes, a labor coach, or just someone to listen and be there for you—I’m your man.”  


“Thank you, John,” Molly said through her tears. “I don’t have a lot of close friends, and honestly, I don’t know anyone as honorable and trustworthy as you. And I know we are both missing him so much right now. Sometimes it just seems so impossible to think about anything else, to believe that life still goes on without him.”  


John clasped both of Molly’s hands in his. They were firm and reassuring. She knew everything was going to be okay because Sherlock’s best friend would take care of her and their baby.  


“Listen,” he said, “I know an OB. We were at uni together. How about I give him a call and see if he can see you this week. I’ll go with you. I’ll go to every appointment with you if you wish.”

 

After Molly’s first appointment with Dr. Reid, John escorted her back to St. Bart’s.  


“So you’re six weeks along. That puts the date of conception right around the time of, um, Sherlock’s--”  


“Yes, I told you, I was not in a good place. I mean, I had to lay out the body, and it was so—so—and—I’m--”  


“Right, right. I was just—that night before Sherlock—he was at Bart’s when I caught up to him. What was he doing all that time?”  


“I don’t know everything that he was doing that night. I mean, he asked me to use the lab, and it was Sherlock so I said yes. I don’t—didn’t—ask him a lot of questions.”  


 

***********************************************************************************  


 

Molly and John were just tucking into breakfast at a diner near Molly’s flat. Later that morning they were going to the OB’s office where Molly would have her first ultrasound.  
“Have you talked to your mum and told her yet?” John asked.  


Molly sighed. “I know I need to, but I’m just afraid that I’ll disappoint her.”  


“Molly, you need her. I’m here for you and I will do everything I can for you, but I think that right now you need all the support you can get. Listen, she may be disappointed, but that will last all of a minute when she realizes that she is going to be a grandmother. Then she’ll be chuffed, you just wait and see.”  


Molly’s phone chimed to let her know she had a text. “Sorry, I should probably check that. Could be work.” She fished her phone from her bag and looked at the screen. She didn’t recognize the phone number, but she unlocked screen to read the text anyway. She covered her mouth and gasped. All color drained from her face and tears suddenly stung her eyes. There was a photo on her screen, no words. It was clearly some place foreign, some far-off place where laundry was strung between buildings on a narrow street. It didn’t need words. She knew who this was from.  


John stopped eating his eggs and looked at Molly. “Molly? Are you okay? What is it? Who’s it from?”  


“It’s—it’s nothing. Nothing.”  


“No, it’s something. What is it?”  


“My mum…my mum just texted me, um, my aunt is sick, very sick. She’s driving up to visit her.”  


“Is she going to be okay? Do we need to reschedule your appointment? Maybe they could squeeze you in later this week.”  


“No, no. We should go. This is an exciting visit. After all, I’m going to see my baby for the first time.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wanted to say, “Our baby, mine and Sherlock’s.” She wanted Sherlock to be here with her now and Sherlock to be there to see the ultrasound.  


“Molly, really, we can reschedule. You’re clearly upset,” John said.  


“John, I want to go. And thank you. Thank you so much for being here with me and supporting me. I don’t know if I could do it without you.” It was true; she would have broken down weeks ago without John. If Sherlock couldn’t be here, she knew she had the next best thing. Besides, she told herself, Sherlock is alive and he’s thinking of her. She looked at her phone again. She knew it might be dangerous if she kept his text. She closed her eyes and burned the picture into her mind, then opened them and hit delete.  


 

***************************************************************************  


 

Molly was asleep when her text alert chimed. She didn’t hear it at first, but when it chimed again it startled her awake. Ever since the picture of the laundry, Molly had jumped with excitement every time she received a text. She hadn’t received anymore from Sherlock, but she kept the hope that she would. This time she was not disappointed. The picture was of a sunrise over a desert. She locked the image away in her mind before hitting delete.  


The next morning, John accompanied Molly to her monthly prenatal appointment. At this one she would have an ultrasound to find out if she was having a boy or a girl.  


“This is pretty exciting, isn’t it?” John asked her.  


“Yes, I suppose so,” Molly replied.  


“Have you been thinking about some names, then?” he asked her.  


Had she been thinking about names? That was all she thought about, but they were all boy names, some version of Sherlock’s name that wouldn’t give away the fact that she was having his baby. She had the advantage to know his full name and that Sherlock was not his first name. When she had done the paperwork for Sherlock’s death certificate Mycroft had to fill in the name: William Sherlock Scott Holmes. William and Scott were both lovely and she tried them out in different combinations with different names. But she had not thought of one girl’s name. She wanted a boy.  


“Um, I’ve thought of a few. Family names, that sort of thing.”  


“So, will the baby have the father’s last name?” John asked. Molly had told him a dozen times if she had told him once, that she didn’t know the father’s last name, that she couldn’t remember his first name, and that he was out of the picture. However, every so often John would throw out a question such as this as if he thought she might tell him something different if he asked her in a different way.  


“Nope. It will be Hooper just like mine. The father isn’t around so it doesn’t make much difference anyway, does it?” she asked with a smile.  


 

John was holding Molly’s hand when the ultrasound technician entered the examination room.  


“Good morning! What an exciting day for mum and dad!” she exclaimed. John and Molly just glanced at each other and smiled. They had been mistaken as a couple for so long now that they had given up trying to explain that they were just friends and that he was just here for moral support.  


“Yes, it sure is!” Molly said with a big, put-on smile.  


“Can’t wait!” John said with a smile to match hers.  


The tech slid Molly’s gown above her growing baby bump and gently pulled the waist of her pants down to her hips. She squirted lubricating jelly all over Molly’s abdomen and pulled out the ultrasound wand. Carefully she rubbed the wand across Molly’s body.  


“Ah, ha! There’s your baby!” she said as the baby appeared on the monitor. “Let me take a shot of that. There is the head, the spine, arms, and legs. Let’s see if we can get the baby to move a bit.” She softly pushed the wand across Molly’s abdomen trying to get a better angle. “Look! Look right there! Congratulations, Mum and Dad! It’s a boy!”  


“It’s a boy?” asked Molly. “It’s a boy. It’s a boy, John!”  


“Oh, that’s wonderful, that is! Someone to carry on the family name,” John said with a wink at Molly. “By the way, what is that family name, dear?”  


“Hooper.”  


“Right, right.”  


The tech looked at them a bit strangely now, but continued. “Everything looks exactly as it should. He’s measuring right on track. Let me get a quick shot of this and I will print these pictures for you. Do you have any questions for me?”  


John looked the technician in the eyes, and with a straight face asked, “Yeah, when can we do a paternity test, because now that I see the baby’s tackle, I’m convinced I’m not the father.”  


The technician looked awkwardly from John to Molly and then John again. “Well, um, you would….that is when the baby is born…”  


John and Molly burst into laughter. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m just pulling your leg,” John told her. She looked relieved for a moment until he continued, “I already know I’m not the father,” and fell into another fit of giggles with Molly.  


 

*******************************************************************************  


 

By December, Molly’s belly had grown to the size of a football and she felt like a duck, waddling everywhere she went.  


John came over on the second Saturday of the month, dragging in a Christmas tree.  


“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I thought you might like one and could use some help putting it up.”  


“Oh, John, it’s beautiful! How did you get it here, though?”  


“I bought it at a lot a few blocks over and paid one of the guys working there to drive me over.”  


“You shouldn’t have! I’ll have to go up to the attic to get my tree stand and decorations. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  


“Molly, don’t be ridiculous. You cannot climb up in the attic in your condition. Here, you put your hand here and hold it up so needles don’t fall out all over the floor and I’ll go get the stand and decorations. Where in the attic are they?”  


“There are two red boxes labeled ‘Christmas,’ and the stand should be sitting right on top of them. They are pretty close to the attic door, on the right side, I think.”  


“All righty then, back in a jiffy.”  


While John was upstairs, Molly’s text alert chimed. “Oh, bollocks!” she exclaimed as she realized her phone was in the kitchen on the table. John came thundering down the stairs.  


“Are you all right? I heard you yell out, but I couldn’t hear what you said.”  


“Oh, I’m sorry,” Molly answered sheepishly, “I was just swearing because my text alert went off and my phone is in the kitchen.  


John sighed, then chuckled. “I’ll go get it for you,” he said and turned to head to the kitchen.  


“No! It’s okay, I mean. I’m sure it’s not important. You go ahead and finish what you were doing. I’ll just check it when you get back.”  


John gave her a curious look, which he dismissed quickly. “All right, then. Won’t take me but a few minutes. I got the boxes and stand down to the landing. I’ll go ahead and grab the tree stand and get that on so you can let go of the tree and then I’ll bring the decorations down.”  


“Great. That’s great!”  


Ten minutes later, John and Molly were wrestling the tree into the tree stand when John decided to bring up a touchy subject.  


“So, have you heard from him?” John asked.  


The color drained from Molly’s face. “Hear from whom?” she almost whispered.  


“The father. Your baby’s father. I don’t know, I thought maybe he may have tried calling you. Or texting you….”  


“He’s gone. There is no contact. I’ve told you, John. Why do you keep bringing it up?” She was still pale and her voice still soft.  


“I just thought you might try to find him, let the bloke know he’s going to be a father. Find out his name at least. Sorry, it’s none of my business.”  


“I have no idea how to get in touch with him. I really don’t. I wouldn’t even know where to start, and I really just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  


John nodded. “All right then. I’m sorry, Molly.”

 

Later, after John had left, Molly checked her phone. There was picture of what looked like an Asian monastery covered in snow.  


“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” she whispered. Delete.  


 

***********************************************************************  


 

For eight months John Watson had kept his promise. He went to birthing classes with Molly. He picked up Chinese food for her in the middle of the night when she called him with cravings. As her belly got big and round he ran errands for her and helped her with chores around her flat. He painted the nursery and put together baby furniture. They grew to be very close and dear friends, but although Sherlock was never far from their minds, the hurt that it brought kept them from talking about him very much. It made Molly very nervous when they did; she was always afraid that she might let something slip about Sherlock’s fake death, thus betraying Sherlock’s trust in her.  


 

*******************************************************************  


On February 10, Molly got out of bed and went to work, but she was exhausted and could barely stay on her feet. She left early and went back to her flat where she spent the rest of the afternoon in bed.  


John called to check on her that evening.  


“I’m not feeling so well, John. I’m just exhausted.”  


“How many weeks along are you now? Thirty-seven? Well, your technically full-term now. These last few weeks your baby is growing more rapidly, so it’s to be expected. Do you want me to come over and check your blood pressure? Are you hungry? I could bring you some food. Chinese? Fish and chips? Pasta?”  


“No, I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just stay here in bed and watch telly and rest. I left work early today. Luckily, I am off the rest of the weekend. I just don’t think I have the energy to get out of bed.”  


“Listen, I’ll call you in the morning see how you feel, and I’ll come by in the afternoon and bring some groceries and make you lunch. I’ll stay if you like. I can stay all weekend.”  


“Thank you, John. You are so wonderful.”  


John was true to his word and stayed the weekend. On Monday, Molly convinced him that she was feeling better and that he should go to work. She did feel well enough to get out of bed and eat some toast and eggs, but ultimately decided not to go into work herself.  


At lunch time, she ate some more toast and some biscuits, but she soon felt nauseated and decided to go back to bed. She was still there at 4:00 when John called to check on her.  


“Everything all right, Molly? I’m leaving the office in an hour. I could bring you a sandwich or something.”  


“No, I ate earlier. I’m fine,” she told him, not wanting him to worry about her.  


“Well, if you’re feeling better, I think I am going to go home after work, see that everything is all right, wash some clothes. I’ll come check on you first thing in the morning though.”  


“Yes, that’s fine. You should get a proper night’s sleep in a real bed,” she said with a small laugh. She moaned and rolled over on her side, trying to get comfortable.  


“What was that? Are you sure you are okay?”  


“Yeah, just trying to get comfortable and I think at this point it’s just impossible. My back is killing me today.”  


“Well, just give me a ring if you need anything. I’m just going straight home after work, like I said, I’ll come over first thing in the morning.”  


“Thank you, John. You’re the best.”

 

Molly slept on and off throughout the evening. Despite feeling nauseated and having a stomach ache, she forced herself to go to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. John had bought a bag of her favorite crisps, which she took with her, along with her tea, to the sofa where she sat and watched telly. She was feeling a bit better now and easily fell asleep again while watching a movie. Around ten she awoke needing to go to the toilet. Standing up made her feel dizzy, but she managed to get to the loo. Her stomach was hurting again and so was her back. She sat for about ten minutes on the toilet until the dizziness and the pains passed and then slowly made her way back to her bed. Molly lay down and drifted back to sleep, but thirty minutes later she awoke to more stomach and back pains. She tried to shift positions, but nothing was comfortable. Finally, she decided to get up and walk to the kitchen for some tea. The movement seemed to help, but soon she found herself in pain again.  


“Wait a minute,” she said aloud to herself. “No, no, no, no! Oh, god!” She found her phone in the pocket of her dressing gown and started the timer. Seven minutes later she had another pain. She waited and timed it again. Eight minutes. Quickly she called John’s number. “Pick up, pick up, pick—John? John! I think I’m in labor. I’m having pains every 7 or 8 minutes. Can you come get me?”  


“Yeah, yeah. I’m putting my trousers on now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Just try to remember your breathing.”  


John hung up and Molly sunk onto a chair. Then suddenly it hit her; she was going to give birth to Sherlock’s son and he didn’t even know she was pregnant. He wouldn’t be here with her for the birth of their son. She hadn’t even received a picture from him in two months; he could be dead. Dead and he’d never have known their son. She was sobbing, then crying harder than she ever had before. She had to pull herself together though and stood up to go get her packed bag from the bedroom. As soon as she stood up, her water broke and another contraction came, worse than before.  


“Ow, ow, ow! Ah! Oh, god, John, please hurry!” She tried to do her breathing exercises, but the contractions were coming one right after the other now.  


She soon heard John thundering up the stairs. He found her doubled over on her knees on the kitchen floor.  


“Oh, god, Molly! Are you all right?” he asked, running to her side.  


“NO, I’M NOT BLOODY ALL RIGHT!” she shouted. “I’M HAVING THIS BABY RIGHT NOW!”  


“Right now? No, we’ve got to get you to hospital,” he insisted.  


“There is no time, John! You are going to have to deliver this baby.”  


“Me? No, we’re going to call you an ambulance. They’ll be here in no time.”  


“John, you are not listening to me! This baby is coming right now and you have to deliver him.”  


“Molly, I cannot deliver a baby.”  


“You are a doctor, John!”  


“So are you! How many have you delivered down in the morgue? Probably as many as I have delivered on the battlefield!”  


“Suck it up, John! OWWWWW! I need you! I can’t do this without you, John,” Molly was sobbing now. “I can’t do this. I’m having Sherlock’s baby and he’s not here so I need you to be here and do this for me!”  


John was silent for a moment. Then, choking back a sob of his own, he nodded. “Can you move?”  


Molly shook her head, trying to hold back a scream of pain.  


“Okay, I’m going to go get towels and pillows. Do you have an old blanket we can use?”  


“Linen closet. Blue.”

John ran to get linens to make Molly as comfortable as possible. When he returned to the kitchen, Molly was on her hands and knees, wincing in pain.  


“John, I have to push!”  


“Wait, wait, wait!” He spread the blanket on the kitchen floor and helped Molly ease down onto her back. “Right then, I’m going to have to pull down your knickers, Molly.”  


“I think we are way past the point of modesty here, John,” she told him as he eased her gown up over her belly and began to pull Molly’s pants off. “I’ve got to push!” she yelled.  


“Um, okay, let’s try this: bend your knees and push and I’ll try to get some more towels under your bum to lift it up and give us some more room to work with as the baby comes out.”  


“What?!”  


“Do you have a better idea? Have you done this before? Well, neither have I, so we try this and figure it out as we go. Now do it, and push!”  


Three pushes later and the baby’s head was crowning. “You’re doing great, Molly, John told her. Give me a big push to get the shoulders out.”  


“Oh, god! It hurts, John!”  


“I know, Molly, but you can do this. Ready? Give me a big push then. Good, good, let me turn him a bit to get the shoulders through.”  


“Ahhhhhhhh!”  


“Okay, rest a moment. Breathe, Molly. When you’re ready, give me a couple more good, big pushes.”  


“I’m ready.”  


“Okay, let’s do this. Let’s meet your baby boy.”  


With three more pushes, the baby was out. John lay him carefully on the towels between Molly’s legs where he cleaned out his mouth and the Holmes-Hooper baby let out his first wail. John jumped up to get a knife from the block on the countertop.  


“Stay still, just a moment, Molly. I’m going to get a knife to cut the cord and then I’ll hand him to you.” While he was up, he also took a twist-tie from a bread bag to make a clamp. He made quick work of it and wrapped the baby boy in a clean towel. He the handed him to Molly and helped her into a sitting position, sitting behind her for support.  


“Oh, god, John,” she whispered. He’s so beautiful.” Molly started crying. “Look at his hair and his eyes; they’re just like Sherlock’s.”  


“Molly, why didn’t you tell me?” John asked. “He was my best friend.”  


Molly cried even more. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t—think about it, about him. It has hurt me so much. I wanted to tell you so many times. I thought that you knew because of all the questions you asked.”  


“I think on some level I did. How long were you two…um, seeing one another?”  


“It was just the one night, before he…and I felt so guilty and hurt because why didn’t I see it coming? Why did he make love to me and still do what he did? Why did he leave me? And then when I realized I was pregnant—I was almost devastated, but then I had to be glad that I had a piece of him with me. But I couldn’t have done this without you and your support, John. Thank you.”  


John kissed Molly on the back of the head. “So, go on then, tell me the name.”  


“I’ve thought about it a lot and I have decided William John Scott Hooper. I hope you don’t mind that I gave him your name.”  


“I’m honored, Molly. So, you’re going to go with Hooper?”  


“I think that is best, and safest, for us now.”  


“I suppose you’re right,” John said. John glanced down at his watch. “Now let’s talk about something important.”  


“Okay. What?” Molly asked, glancing back at him with a quizzical look on her face.  


“Tell me about that tattoo on your hip.”  


Molly laughed. “I’ve had it a couple of years now. I always wanted a tattoo, but was never brave enough to get one. Then my girlfriend, Emily, and I were on holiday and we just got a wild idea to go get tattoos. I didn’t know what to do, so I got a Harry Potter tattoo.  


“Oh, that’s what it is! I’ve never read the books. Very interesting. It’s like you have this secret wild side that no one knows about.” John glanced at his watch. “It’s 12:20. I think that was the record for the fastest baby delivery on a kitchen floor ever. I’m going to call the ambulance now; you and the baby need to be checked over. Do you want me to call your mum, too?”  


“Yes, thank you. Can we just wait a few more moments, though? Can we just sit here together, all of us, for a little bit longer.”  


“Of course, Molly, of course.”  


 

**********************************************************************  


At nine o’clock later that morning, Molly was nursing William in her hospital room. She had finally convinced John to go home and take a shower and a nap. Her mum had gone down to the canteen to get some coffee. There was a rap on the door.  


“Come in!” Molly said cheerfully. Her face fell when Mycroft Holmes entered the room.  


“Don’t look so happy to see me, Ms. Hooper,” he said with his signature smirk.  


“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just that it’s a surprise. What are you doing here?”  


“Let’s not play games, Ms. Hooper. We both know why I’m here. I’m here to see my nephew.”  


Molly paled. “How did you know?”  


“I know everything worth knowing. I knew of your little escapade with my little brother before he left. This,” he said, waving his hand toward William, “was a rather easy deduction.” Mycroft looked smugly at Molly’s shocked face. “What’s his name?”  


It took Molly a moment to find her voice. “William John Scott Hooper.”  


“Hmm. How sweet. I am going to assume that Sherlock has not been in touch with you in any way and that he doesn’t know?”  


“That’s right. Why would Sherlock contact me? He’s not stupid. He knows he can’t risk being found out.” In the back of her mind Molly was worried that Mycroft already knew the truth, that Sherlock had already risked his safety by texting the pictures to her. As if on cue, her text alert went off and she jumped.  


“Are you all right, Ms. Hooper?” Mycroft asked her in his oily voice.  


“I’m fine, but you make me nervous showing up here. What do you really want? Why are you here?”  


Mycroft cleared his throat. “As much as I may disapprove of my brother’s indiscretion with you, I feel obligated to ensure that his son is taken care of in the manner that he deserves.”  


“I don’t want your money, Mycroft!” Molly told him.  


“I am not offering you money, per se. I just want to guarantee that William’s every need is taken care of, beginning with nursery school. I’ll be able to forego the requisite waiting list at any that you desire, though I have my own recommendations. Tuition will also be paid at the best primary and prep schools. Books, uniforms, everything.  


“You don’t have to give me an answer now, Ms. Hooper, but do think about it. This child is a Holmes, and as such he will be privy to much opportunity.”  


“Is that all, Mycroft?” Molly asked curtly.  


“There is one more thing. Should my brother make it back from his mission, I think it best that we keep William a secret. His life is too dangerous, too unstable. It would be best for William.”  


“Goodbye, Mycroft,” Molly said, staring at him icily.  


“Good day, Molly.”  


 

*******************************************************************************  


 

In the corridor, John was just stepping off the lift when Mycroft exited Molly’s room.  


“Mycroft? I didn’t expect to see you here,” John said with a curious look on his face.  


“Just here to offer my congratulations to Ms. Hooper,” he said with a smug smile. Then he became more serious as he asked, “How are you, John? How are you coping?”  


“Well, I’m…yeah, I’m….okay.”  


“You left Baker Street.”  


“Yeah, I left a few weeks after—I just couldn’t stay there. Too many memories. Too many ghosts. How are you?”  


“I won’t lie; I miss him. I can’t help but feel as if it was my fault, that I could have stopped it.”  


“Well, you should feel guilty because it was your fault. You fed Moriarty all that information about your brother and he used it to destroy him. Being a detective was all he had, all that he loved, and Moriarty made everyone think that he was a fraud and question all the good work that he had ever done, and that’s on you, Mycroft. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see my friend.”  


John pushed past Mycroft, who watched with sadness as John disappeared into Molly’s room.

 

*********************************************************************  


“John! What are you doing here? You were supposed to go home and get some sleep!” Molly exclaimed as John walked into her room.  


“I’m fine, I’m fine. Um, so, I just ran into Mycroft out in the corridor. What was he doing here?”  


“He came in to congratulate me. Odd really. I hardly know him.” Molly felt very uncomfortable lying to John. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t lying as much as not telling him the whole truth.  


“Yes, it is quite odd. He was saying to me that he missed his brother and that he felt that it was his fault that…everything happened the way that it did. And I told him that he’s bloody right that it’s his fault.”  


“John! You didn’t!”  


“I did. He gave Moriarty the information that he used against Sherlock. Thanks to Mycroft, Moriarty was able to plant that seed of doubt in everyone’s minds about him.” John paused. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  


“Well, maybe that’s why Mycroft came today. If he’s missing Sherlock and feeling guilty, perhaps he wanted to see Sherlock’s friends so he could feel closer to his brother.”  


“Maybe,” John said. “Sod him though. We’ve been getting on fine without him.”  


“Yeah,” Molly said quietly in agreement.

 

Later, after John and her mother had left her so she could rest, Molly pulled out her phone. There was a picture of kites. What were the chances that he just happened to contact her on the day that their son was born? Had Mycroft been in contact with him too? Did he know where Sherlock was? Had Mycroft passed him the information? That didn’t seem likely since he seemed so keen on keeping it from Sherlock “should” he make it back from his mission. Perhaps there were other contacts here in London that were keeping Sherlock informed somehow? He did have an extensive “homeless network” throughout the city. He could have found some clever way for them to get information to him without being detected. Then again, it may have just been a coincidence. Molly looked at the kites again. There were many different colors and shapes flying against a cloudless blue sky. That was all that was in the picture; the people on the other ends of the strings were unseen. Perhaps it would have been telling of where he was if you could see them or their surroundings. She closed her eyes and then hit delete.


End file.
